I write of the love.
I watch others touch with that spark between them, see the smiles it creates that goes soul deep, that touch of another creating sparks of desire I have yet to feel; yet I write of love.
Studying the art of the kiss from afar, learning the visual clues of when it will happen and how, but never understanding truly why. Watching other kiss, all the while wondering what the feelings and sensations that might bring to each of them; yet, I write of love.
The whispered voices of a couple in the night, their slow silence to that stare in the other’s eyes and that look of love changed to desire. The sounds they make when in silence deafen me with the shout of their emotions. A silence I’ve never heard or experienced; yet I write of love.
The tender touch of a lover’s caress, warmth shared of something so intimate that it can only be explained as primal. A sharing of bodies with a possibility to share their souls, whether one brief night or a lifetime bonded of things not experienced; yet I write of love.
Borrowing emotions, caresses, romance, and heat from mind’s eye and stolen glance, imagination bringing power to things unfelt, unseen and never experienced. The sights, sounds, sensations, emotions and experiences of another put to words that have only meaning in the mind of the reader; yet I write of love.
And yet, I write of love.